


A Painted Map Across Your Skin

by samidha



Series: And the Armaments Fall to Ash [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e02 Wendigo, Gen, Sam Has Powers, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: A gen timestamp in the Armaments 'verse.





	A Painted Map Across Your Skin

Ben and Haley form a protective shield on either side of their brother Tommy and the EMTs are so busy figuring out how to handle someone (eaten alive for days) with Tommy's level of injury that they aren't noticing Dean.

It's not like Sam could call Dean an ambulance and live to talk about it. And really, it's okay; Sam lost his brother today, and it's different, it's so goddamn different from all the close calls that have come before.

Except for how it isn't.

Sam had gotten on the bus for Palo Alto (three days, five transfers, but Sam wasn't in any hurry anymore) and the very first time he fell asleep, he dreamed of Dean. Dreamed like something was ripping into his very soul to lodge the images there. He dreamed of Dean, broken open inside and walking around like every step, every breath hurt him, and Sam knew he'd done that to his brother. Dean had no broken ribs, no broken flesh to heal. He'd broken in pieces and every one had Sam's name on it.

Sam dreamed and watched the job go down. Watched his brother and father standing in a warehouse, saw Dean shift the wrong way and land a ragged claw to the cheek, then all the way down his arm.

Dean's scream was animalistic--it had almost nothing of his brother in it at all. And then the dream ended and Sam wanted to be grateful but he wasn't sure if he should be.

It took a lot out of Sam, but he played up being motion sick for the next day on the bus and people did pretty much anything they could to avoid sitting next to him. When the bus filled to capacity, Sam retreated into the miserable mobile commode.

And he replayed the dream and replayed it, searching. Each time sent him through wave after wave of dizziness and real nausea, but Sam had never had a choice in this--he had to do it, had to find out the truth.

Finally he played the dream to himself one more time and he saw a scrap of notepaper poking out of Dean's pocket and said a quiet thanks for whatever the hell was doing this. It hurt but Sam could use it. Because what Sam saw was real, he knew it was, in freaky fever-dream techni-color or not.

It was June twenty-third and the paper was dated the twenty-sixth: 255 Claremont, warehouse.

And Sam couldn't let that go, crazy or not. Whether Dean would want--

Or not.

On the twenty-seventh at midnight, Sam shuffled out of the youth hostel on Mission Street and scrolled down to Dean's number on his phone. He waited to hear Dean breathing on the other side of the line, until he knew by the pattern that it was Dean and then he closed his phone.

And Sam was grateful. He was. He just hadn't known grateful could hurt so damn much.

That was the first time. But the dreams were Sam's, and he could keep them. Even after the night two years ago, when Dean barked into the phone, "If you can't even say anything then I don't care anymore." There was a pause and then, in a firm growl, "Stop calling me, Sam."

It was worse after that, except for how it was better. Sam didn't call Dean to hear him breathing steady. He used the dreams instead, each one a sickening ride and a cloying balm--Dean's here, Dean's here, Dean's still here.

So this--Sam knows this. He lost his brother in the woods--he'd been sloppy, unpracticed--and he'd just known it. But he's here. He knows now Dean would have been in the woods even if Sam wasn't, but he is. He's here in person and he can hold onto Dean's good arm, support him as he crosses the lot from the car to the room, and he--he can help Dean now, because he's here. He can patch Dean up, take his time, make sure there'll be minimal scarring.

Dean deserves that. Sam can do that.

Dean's shirtless and sitting at the table now, in a room with hunter green walls and horrible brown plaid bedspreads. Sam has the first aid kit out.

And his eyes slide for a second from Dean's fresh injuries to the scar on Dean's arm, the scar from June twenty-sixth.

"Werewolf," Dean says softly, and Sam should be preparing to suture but he just watches Dean silently with his chest starting to ache, feeling the tension build. Dean puts his good arm on Sam's shoulder for a second. Then he taps a little scar over his opposite eye. "Fucking Who's Who of the Unseelie Court, you believe that shit? It was like this evil cast party or whatever the hell. Pain in our asses."

He rubs a spot on his wrist where the bone seems a little raised under the skin. "Broke this. That was a fucking poltergeist."

Dean's going in order.

Sam drops the suture packets. He can't look at Dean when he says it. "I'm sorry." The words rip out of him.

Dean shakes his head a little and puts his hand back on Sam's shoulder, catches his eyes. "It's okay," Dean keeps his voice low. There's the barest pause. "You were there."

Sam doesn't have to nod agreement.

"You better do a damn good job on these sutures, bitch."


End file.
